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An Hour Ago
I’m the only one here. I just woke up. My wife’s not here. She asked me if I wanted to join her in browsing for a new washing machine. I told her no. I’d much rather stay at home. She left to find a new washing machine, even though the one we have now works just fine. I used it just an hour ago. My father’s not here. He lives with us, since his wife died. He’s an old, grey, bespectacled little man. I love him, but he never says much to me. He’s old-fashioned. He used to cut wood for a living; he earned a nice living on it. People need wood here, I guess. I never notice the cold. Being old, my father certainly notices the cold, always complaining about it and nagging me to throw some wood on the fire, but I never do. He told me that I would absolutely never listen to him or reason. He’s wrong, you know. I used the fireplace just an hour ago. My son’s not here. David always has something to do; he never seems to stay in one place very long. He’s sixteen, handsome, charming—he gets all the girls, and I know that’s why he always goes. He asked me if he could borrow my car before he left. I told him no, and he threw his typical fit. He said I always stay inside and never use my car for anything. That’s not true. I used the car just an hour ago. My dog’s not here. She’s really a puppy, not much older than a few months, but still almost big enough to take me down with enough speed. She always jumps on me when it’s time for her walk. I never walk her, but for some reason I’m the one she’s most attached to. I tell her no each time. She even learned to fetch her leash and bring it to me, as if it were some sort of incentive or to send me on some guilt trip. I always chuckle at her, take the leash, and place it up a little higher, hoping next time she won’t be able to reach it. Her eyes sometimes get me, though: pitiful puppy eyes. She’s such a good actress. She has become less enthusiastic over time, as if to say to me that she’s lost hope that I’ll ever take her on a walk. She beckons with the leash, nudging my hand with her wet nose, almost trying to force it into my hand to make sure I use it. I guess I finally gave in. I used the leash just an hour ago. I’m the only one here. I just woke up…but now I think I’ll go back to sleep. It’s too quiet here. “A gunshot wound to the head, inflicted with a shotgun. It was pretty gruesome. He was in his own bed.” Another rather large and husky man shuffled some papers on the desk. “But that’s not all…?” “No, unfortunately. We thought he was alone in the house at first, but then we returned and investigated.” “And?” The chief of police rubbed his eyes, weary with the weight of a long (and looking to be even longer) day. “He wasn't alone. We found his wife’s body stuffed into the washing machine in the basement. It looks like she was suffocated with some bed sheets. He…turned on the washer after his wife was all inside.” “What the hell?” “Then an older gentleman, about seventy-five years old, who we presume to be his father. Well, actually, we only found the remains of him. His limbs were all severed, along with his head, and his torso was bifurcated. Relatively cleanly, I might add, as if with an axe. We found the remains of the father in the fireplace, partly charred. The guy lit a match and threw it in with him. Looks like the hair was set on fire first.” “Jesus.” “A younger guy, anywhere from fifteen to eighteen years old, his son. We found him in the guy’s car sitting in the garage. The car was on, and the kid’s hands were duct-taped to the steering wheel. His eyes were still open.” “…” “Finally, we found his dog. This is the…weirdest one. We found it several blocks down the street, followed by a trail of blood. It had its leash on, and all of its legs were amputated. It’s like the guy took it for a walk, only…it couldn’t walk.” “Did this guy leave any kind of suicide note or…anything? Or was he just fucking insane?” “Actually, we did find this note on his bed, written in shaky, uneven letters. We believe he wrote it just before he shot himself. It says, ‘They said I’d never use the shotgun.’” Category:Ghosts Category:Reality Category:Historical Archive